


Hearts Not Averse

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Bruises, Coffee Shops, Commitment, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Flirting, Hair-pulling, Halloween Costumes, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mirror Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Shotgunning, Smoking, Snow, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-02-28 09:57:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13269042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Shizuo’s head comes up, his attention veering away from the surface of his drink with the immediate response one might have to a physical threat; but there’s no blow, no incoming pain, just a flashing smile coupled with shadowed eyes. The other student is looking at him, his head finally lifted from the distraction of his phone; and he’s smirking, the soft of his lips drawn up onto a grin as sharp-edged as a blade." Shizuo's autumn includes a cold day, a humid night, and a warm evening.





	1. September

Shizuo just wanted to get a coffee.

He left for class early this morning, while the sun was still barely threatening the sky with the pink edges of daybreak; it made sense, at the time, to hunch his shoulders against the pre-dawn chill still clinging to the air and forgo his jacket in favor of greater comfort in the afternoon, when he’s walking home in the direct sunlight that usually follows his last class. But the air failed to warm today as the sun climbed in the sky, the morning chill gave way instead to a unseasonable biting wind that cuts right through Shizuo’s shirt, and by the time his morning classes are over Shizuo is exhausted just from the physical effort of constantly hunching in to preserve some measure of body warmth for his own comfort.

Coffee seems like a great idea. Shizuo would take tea too, or even just a cup of hot water to cradle against his chilled fingers; but the extra jolt of caffeine is a welcome idea even in imagination, and by the time he’s leaving his lecture he’s ready to make his daydreams a reality. He makes for the on-campus coffee shop first thing, taking long strides as he makes his way there to beat the worst of the rush, and in the end he’s the third person in line to order his drink. The girl directly ahead of him in line gets a cup of tea, and steps away from the counter with her head ducked down over the steam rising from the surface of her mug, and Shizuo orders his own drink, paying with cold-numbed fingers and trying not to shiver too visibly while he waits for his change. The cashier gives back a handful of coins, and gestures towards the counter where the finished drinks are set, and Shizuo ducks his head and goes to wait for the salvation of hot coffee to be delivered to him. There’s someone there already waiting for a drink, bundled in a jacket a little too big for him and lined with fur that Shizuo eyes with some measure of envy; their eyes meet for a moment before Shizuo looks down and away and turns to lean against the wall across from the coffee counter so he can wait for his drink.

He doesn’t mean to stare at the other. He’s already been caught looking once, he’d rather not suffer the embarrassment of a repetition; but his eyes keep drawing back to that dark coat and those soft-lined cuffs. The jacket enough would be sufficient to hold his attention -- under the circumstances Shizuo thinks he’d be jealous of anyone who had the foresight to dress appropriately for the weather -- but the student wearing it is distracting too, once Shizuo manages to sneak a glance at him unobserved. It’s something about the way he’s standing, maybe, with his back curved into an elegant arch as if he’s modeling the coat instead of hunching into its warmth the way any sane person would; or maybe it’s his hands, as he slides his phone out of his pocket to scroll idly through whatever messages are on the screen. He has long fingers and narrow wrists; Shizuo can see the motion of tendons working under the other’s skin as he frowns attention at his phone. His face is no better; his hair is a rich, glossy black that catches Shizuo’s eye as surely as it catches the glow of the light overhead, and his face is as pretty as his hands, from the pout of his lips to the smooth arch of his eyebrows. Shizuo can see the weight of dark lashes shift when the other blinks, can make out the shadows sliding over high cheekbones with each reflexive motion; and then: “I...I-za-ya?” the barista says from the counter, making the name a question as much as a call, and the other’s head comes up at once in response. Shizuo ducks his head to frown at his feet, feeling his face flush as warm as if he had been caught staring as the other goes up to collect his drink and murmur something Shizuo can’t make out. The other student follows it up with a laugh, the sound as bright and distracting as a flash of light in night-blind eyes; and then he’s turning back around, and Shizuo huffs an exhale of relief at the expectation of the other’s imminent departure.

Except he doesn’t leave. He just saunters back over towards the wall where Shizuo is waiting for his own drink, moving in a way that draws Shizuo’s attention unavoidably to the length of the other’s legs in dark jeans and the angle of narrow hips under the weight of his coat; and then he turns back around to brace his shoulders at the wall and resume his consideration of his phone as if nothing has happened at all. He looks perfectly comfortable, as if he intends to stand there and sip his coffee in as much peace as if he were sitting at a table; Shizuo eyes him again, frowning harder now as he considers the other’s position. They’re directly in front of the coffee counter; as other classes empty out the coffee shop will only get more crowded, and the more people are waiting for their drinks the more demand there will be for this precise location. The other’s choice of position is inconsiderate at best and deliberately rude at worst; and Shizuo is just opening his mouth to say something when there’s another call from the counter, “Large pumpkin spice latte for Shizuo?” that brings his attention swinging back around.

“Yeah,” he says needlessly, and steps forward to claim his drink.

“Whipped cream?” the barista asks, coupling the offer with the bland, polite smile of customer service employees, and Shizuo ducks his head in acknowledgment.

“Thanks,” he says, waiting for the addition before taking the cup without bothering with either a lid or a wrapper; he doubts the former would fit over the veritable mountain of whipped cream before him, and even tingling in near-pain his hands are more grateful for the warmth than otherwise. He clasps the curve of it between both palms, bringing it towards his face to breathe in the heat as he moves towards the doorway, and he’s just feeling the first knots of uncomfortable chill easing from his shoulders when a voice like winter sunlight crackles over a laugh so aimed at him it feels like a blow.

“Seriously?” Shizuo’s head comes up, his attention veering away from the surface of his drink with the immediate response one might have to a physical threat; but there’s no blow, no incoming pain, just a flashing smile coupled with shadowed eyes. The other student is looking at him, his head finally lifted from the distraction of his phone; and he’s smirking, the soft of his lips drawn up onto a grin as sharp-edged as a blade. “You got a  _pumpkin spice latte_?”

Shizuo’s shoulders stiffen, he can feel his forehead crease on irritation as his mouth tenses on a frown. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s good.” His attention swings down to the cup in the other’s hand and the dark liquid within and he huffs a laugh that drags itself into a scoff as it leaves his lips. “What, are you too much of a purist for anything but black coffee?”

The other lifts his shoulder into a shrug that manages to look more like an insult than anything that came before. “I’m willing to be flexible,” he purrs. His eyes are brighter than Shizuo expected; with his head lifted to meet Shizuo’s gaze they catch the light to look almost crimson. “But I do prefer to drink actual coffee instead of dessert in a cup.”

Shizuo’s face heats, his grip on the cup in his hands tightens. “I prefer to let other people live their lives,” he snaps. “Instead of lingering in coffee shops and inflicting my pretension on strangers.”

A dark eyebrow raises, that sharp mouth quirks. “Ooo, good one,  _Shizuo_ ,” he lilts, with enough drawl on the words to make the mockery of them clear. “Were you thinking of that the whole time you were checking me out?”

Shizuo hisses a sharp, stunned inhale. “I--” he starts, and then words fail him entirely, coherency giving way to a blush he can feel radiate across his entire face in direct opposition to the chill he’s been feeling so strongly all day. “I wasn’t  _checking you out_.”

Both eyebrows go up this time. “No?” The other’s lashes dip, his gaze drops; Shizuo can feel the weight of that attention slide down over the whole of his body as if the other has his hands pressing close against Shizuo’s clothes to drag friction against the rapidly warming skin beneath. Shizuo sets his jaw and tries with limited success to avoid noticing the hum of warmth starting to collect low in his stomach in answer to the weight of that stare. Those eyes travel back up, as slow in their rising as they were in their descent; when the other meets Shizuo’s gaze again it’s through the angle of his lashes, with the color of his eyes obscured to shadow by the tilt of them as he lifts his cup to his mouth to press his lips to the edge. “My mistake.”

Shizuo has to work himself consciously through a swallow. It’s hard to manage, with those eyes still fixed unblinkingly on him and his blood trying to surge downward in complete disregard of his emotional state. “Yeah,” he says, with a stunning display of coherence that is nonetheless the best he can muster at the moment. “It is.” He ducks his head, just to break the heat of that stare with the other. “I’ve got class.”

“Of course you do,” the other says, as smoothly as if he knows Shizuo is lying, as if he can sense the hour of free time stretching before the other just from the angle of his shoulders and the set of his jaw. “Run along now.” He lifts his hand to wave Shizuo off, as if he’s granting him permission to leave.

Shizuo very nearly turns back in just at that, almost hisses fury past his teeth and lunges in to growl some measure of fear into that sultry gaze; but he has better things to do with his time, like being literally anywhere but right here with this odd, aggressive stranger who wields his distracting beauty like a weapon. He ducks his head instead, venting his anger with a low growl as he brings his cup to his mouth for a sip before reaching for the door to let himself out; and it’s just as the sweet of the whipped cream touches his lips that the other speaks again, more loudly, as if he’s not sure Shizuo will hear something more mild. “Enjoy your milkshake, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo doesn’t make a conscious decision to turn around from the door. He doesn’t think about lifting his hand from the handle, or about pivoting on his heel, or about striding in towards the other so rapidly that his latte splashes and nearly tips over the edge of the cup. He’s just acting all at once, moving in to close with the other as if the last taunt were a cue to action, were a spark to set all the tension building in his body free in an explosion of motion. His feet carry him in close, his hand comes out against the wall, his shoulders tip forward; and when he next takes a breath it’s a hiss, almost a growl of warning as he leans in as far into the other’s personal space as he can get.

“Fuck you,” Shizuo grates past gritted teeth. The other has his head tipped up to meet Shizuo’s gaze; he has to lean farther back to make up for the difference in their heights, given how close they are, but even with that there’s no trace of hesitation in his expression, no flicker of the fear Shizuo half-wishes was behind those dark eyes. “Do you just get off on being an asshole or something?”

Lashes dip heavy over crimson eyes; lips curve up on a smile inexplicably softer, now, than the one that went before. “I get off on a lot of things,” the other says. “It’d be easier to show you than to tell you.”

Shizuo nearly chokes on the hiss at his lips. “ _What_ ,” he manages. “It’s...are you seriously  _coming on to me_?”

“You’re the one pinning me to a wall,” the other says in a perfectly even tone, and shifts his weight in a way that brings Shizuo’s attention unavoidably down to the dark of those jeans against the other’s legs, and the tilt of his hips, and the -- Shizuo jerks his gaze back up at once, feeling his cheeks burn with embarrassment, but there’s not so much as a flicker in the smirk at the other’s mouth as he gazes up at Shizuo with shadows in his eyes that are looking more suggestive by the minute. “I’m just suggesting we make things a little more private, if you want to escalate further.”

Shizuo stares at him for a moment. There’s no trace of hesitation in the dark of those eyes, no tug of held-back laughter at the other’s lips; but he can’t  _possibly_  be sincere, this has to be some extended, unfunny joke. “You’re not serious.”

“Is that a no?” the other asks.

“No,” Shizuo snaps, and then, just as quickly: “ _Yes_ ,” as his mind catches up to his words and he finally thinks to push back from the wall and retreat from the too-much shadow of those eyes gazing up at him. “You can’t--” He clears his throat, sets his jaw. “I have class.”

“Uh huh.” The other hasn’t straightened from where Shizuo’s forward lean pushed him back against the wall; Shizuo can see the curve of his back and the tilt of his shoulders as if his body is yet retaining the force of Shizuo’s, as if the signs of proximity are still lingering in the languid weight of his position. He brings his coffee to his lips and takes another careful sip of it without breaking eye contact with Shizuo. “Because your lower-division statistics class is  _so_  important you can’t possibly miss even one lecture. You might be the most diligent student on campus, Shizu-chan.”

“Don’t  _call_  me that,” Shizuo snaps. “I can’t ditch class for…” His face heats at the impossibility of what the other is suggesting; he presses his lips together and clears his throat roughly to compensate. “I don’t even know your name.”

The other lifts his cup into the space between them, turning it so the scrawled writing on the side faces Shizuo. “Can’t you read?” he asks. “Izaya.” He draws his cup back in towards himself and returns to fixing Shizuo with that challenging stare. “Orihara Izaya. Feel better now?”

“No,” Shizuo says at once. “I don’t know anything about you. You could be a serial killer for all I know.”

“And you don’t think you could take me?” Izaya asks. “You seemed ready enough to start a fight a minute ago.” He tips his head to the side; the motion draws against the curve of his throat and lets the weight of his hair slide sideways off pale skin. Shizuo’s eyes are drawn unavoidably down, tracking the line of the other’s neck before him as his skin prickles in response to the clear surrender telegraphed by the motion. “If you’re that worried about a weapon you could always strip search me.” He tips his head back, draws his lips wider around a smile; Shizuo can’t find the strength in him to look away. “I’d be happy to submit to your investigation.”

This is a bad idea. Everything in the other’s expression, from the cut of his smile to the color of his eyes to the taunting angle of his head, is screaming  _danger_ , is bleeding dishonesty as if there’s crimson dripping from his open fingers. But Shizuo can smell the bite of the other’s coffee on his breath, can feel the heat of Izaya’s body radiating against him; and his imagination is purring onto possibilities, is whispering about the feel of those sharp wrists under his fingers and the angle of those long legs wrapping tight around his hips, and what that brittle-bright voice might sound like shattered open on heat, breaking into a moan shaped around the syllables of Shizuo’s name. Shizuo should do the mature thing, should laugh at this overt suggestion, and find a place to smoke a cigarette before attending his afternoon lectures, and stop thinking about this seduction too strange and too sudden to be true; but those eyes are still fixed on him like a dare, and that smile is still pulling at him like a magnet, and when his breath rushes out of him in a gusting exhale Shizuo can taste surrender on the motion of it.

“Fine,” he says; and he lifts his coffee to his mouth to punctuate with a long swallow of whipped-cream sweetness. “Lead on,  _Izaya_.”

Shizuo is very sure this is the most stupid thing he’s ever done; but then again, he’s in college, and he’s probably allowed at least a little recklessness from that alone. He can always catch up on homework or lectures over the weekend or with a late-night cram session, if he gets desperate; and in the meantime, well, he’s making the most of an entirely unexpected opportunity.

He doesn’t even know when he stopped shivering.


	2. October

“Stop  _biting_  me,” Shizuo snaps as he stumbles up the last few stairs leading to the relative quiet of the second floor. “It’s just a stupid costume, you don’t have to get into the method acting of it too.”

“Are you complaining?” Izaya asks without lifting his head from where he’s purring the words against the line of Shizuo’s throat. Shizuo can feel the edges of the other’s costume teeth dragging against his skin with every word Izaya forms. Izaya lets his arm slide away from where he’s hanging off Shizuo’s neck to reach down and palm hard against the front of the other’s pants. “You don’t seem to be all  _that_  upset about it. Besides, the way you look at me everyone knows we’re fucking, it’s not like a hickey or two is going to give that away.”

“That’s not the  _point_ ,” Shizuo groans, although he’s not entirely clear on what the point  _is_ , other than getting Izaya away from the dull roar of the party below. He can still hear the murmur of music from the room packed close with dozens more people than were intended to fit into the house; even as he fumbles for a handle to one of the doors lining the shadows of the darkened second floor he hears a burst of laughter and cheering from something happening in the living room. “You can’t dance with me like that in public.”

“It was hardly dancing  _with_  you,” Izaya says, and lifts his head from Shizuo’s neck to catch his weight on his own feet again so he can twist and stumble farther down the hallway. His arm stays looped around Shizuo’s neck; his fingers catch and curl inside the loose collar weighted around the other’s throat as the last accessory of his werewolf costume. “You have a catastrophic sense of rhythm, Shizu-chan, I don’t know that what we were doing had any relation to dancing at all.”

“Yeah?” Shizuo growls, because that’s the extent of the protest he really has to offer to Izaya tugging him down the hall as he reaches to try the handle of another of the doors that have been locked thus far. “What would  _you_  call it, then?”

Izaya’s fingers tighten at the handle of the door before them, his wrist flexes to twist it. “Foreplay,” he says; and then the door is swinging open, and Shizuo is toppling in as fast as Izaya pulls, his own goal and Izaya’s encouragement falling into line as they clear the entryway and Izaya slams the door shut behind them again.

This isn’t what Shizuo expected to be doing with his Halloween. He had intended to buy some simple costume to wear to the few classes he has, and maybe hand out some candy to any of the younger trick-or-treaters that come by the relatively secluded house he’s renting; he was expecting a quiet night, far distant from the ostentatious costumes and raucous parties his classmates are looking forward to, and he was ready to make the most of it. But he was in the store waiting to check out the costume that he suspects may have been intended for less intimidating pursuits, judging from the bright red collar that it came with, when his phone had buzzed with an incoming message, and when he fished it out of his pocket the display name had been more than enough to draw a groan of resignation from him before he had even seen the text.

 _My friend’s having a Halloween party tomorrow night_ , Izaya’s message read.  _You should come._

 _I don’t do parties_ , Shizuo had texted back while the cashier was ringing him up. His phone hummed with a response before he had handed over his payment; Shizuo waited until he had collected his change and his purchase and left the store before he stepped to the side of the doors and opened his phone again.

 _If you come you could do something else_ , Izaya’s text had read; and then there was a photograph, a sharp-angled picture tipped up to highlight the other’s face from beneath, at a perspective that best showed off the pout of his lips and the dark weight of his lashes. Shizuo could see the pale of a bare shoulder and a slim neck, could catch the suggestion of extended canines just pressing at the dip of that soft mouth; and he had felt his whole body go hot in answer enough to make his surrender clear even before he texted back  _fine_  and made his way home to a hot shower and a vivid fantasy.

It’s not that he  _likes_  Izaya’s company, exactly. Izaya is brittle and cutting, his words are like blades and his laugh built to cut. But even Shizuo’s initial, heat-wild fantasies are nothing compared to the reality of having Izaya beneath him, of the sound of gasps breaking from the other’s throat and the curve of his back on pleasure and the way his fingers fist and drag in Shizuo’s hair when he comes; and ever since that first reckless impulse Shizuo has found refusal drifting farther and farther from him with every invitation Izaya issues.

Which is how he has ended up here.

“This is a  _bathroom_ ,” Shizuo hisses, biting off the words against the heat of Izaya’s lips on his as he backs the other up against the counter to demonstrate. “You couldn’t have picked a different room?”

“All the others are full up,” Izaya says. He has an arm around Shizuo’s neck and his fingers reaching for purchase in Shizuo’s hair; he’s kissing at the other’s jawline without hesitating, apparently wholly undaunted by Shizuo’s half-hearted protests. “By people with the same idea we had.” He draws back just enough to dip his lashes and flutter a smile up at Shizuo before him. “All those sexy Halloween costumes paid off, huh?”

Shizuo groans. “I’m not going to fuck you in a bathroom during a  _party_.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow into what is obviously a dare. “Aren’t you?” he asks, and shifts his weight back against the counter so he can keep his balance as he angles a leg out and between the line of Shizuo’s thighs. Shizuo sees where this is going, it’s not as if he doesn’t understand Izaya’s intention; but he can’t make himself pull away, can’t find the resistance in him to draw back from the weight of Izaya’s thigh sliding between his own to pin his clothes tight against his skin and grind friction in against the heat of his hard-flushed cock. “What, are you just going to look instead?”

Shizuo can’t help the way his hips jerk forward, can’t help the impulse that rocks his body in and against Izaya’s, that brings his hands out to clutch against the narrow dip of the other’s hips that have become so familiar to him over the past weeks. Izaya purrs a sound in the back of his throat, something hot and encouraging, and when he rocks up to meet Shizuo it’s with his whole body curving into the motion to grind the pressure of his erection hard against Shizuo’s thigh as fast as Shizuo pins him back to the counter.

“God,” Shizuo groans. His head tips forward, his lashes dip on reflexive heat; his mouth lands somewhere at the juncture of Izaya’s neck and shoulder, crushing down against the high collar of the cape Izaya has been flourishing as part of his costume all night. “Just. Just fuck you, Izaya.”

“Please,” Izaya says, and curves up against Shizuo in a way that jolts Shizuo’s whole body forward to crush the other back against the edge behind him. It ought to be a painful force, ought to be enough to lift bruises under Izaya’s skin; Izaya just arches into it, moaning so hot in the back of his throat that Shizuo has a prickle of fear that someone will catch them out in this latest indiscretion. “Hurry  _up_.”

“I’m trying,” Shizuo snaps; and he is, as fast as he can get his hands to loosen their bruise-grip at Izaya’s hips to fumble for traction against the other’s clothes instead. Izaya’s costume is far more complex than his own, and better-made to boot; it fits him like it was made for him, as perhaps it was, and gives no guidance to Shizuo’s desperation-clumsy grip. Shizuo has to pull away from Izaya’s neck just to make sense of what he’s doing, and even then there’s too many layers of vest and shirt and cloak and pants for him to quite parse at a glance. “Jesus, Izaya, you could have worn a little less.”

“Like you?” Izaya asks, and draws his hand down from Shizuo’s neck to trail his fingers across the other’s bare chest, where the sleeves of costume give way to the tan of bare skin. Shizuo had been shivering with self-consciousness as much as cold by the time he came up the front step to ring the doorbell to the party; now, with Izaya’s touch trailing over him, he just feels the weight of his remaining clothes like an unnecessary burden. “Really, Shizuo, if I had known you were into showing yourself off like this I would have marked you sooner.”

Shizuo huffs a laugh that is a little bit amused and mostly just overheated. He has Izaya’s pants half-open; there’s still the extra fabric of his silky shirt to contend with, but he’s closing his fingers around that and tugging it free of the waistband as quickly as he thinks of it. “Marked me,” he repeats, and pushes Izaya’s shirt back so he can reach down and into the open front of the other’s pants once more. “As your property?”

“Yes,” Izaya says; and then Shizuo’s palm weights against the heat of the other’s cock, and Izaya’s body jerks in answer, his fingers flexing to score lines of red across Shizuo’s bare chest and stomach. Shizuo hisses, the exhale involuntary along with the burst of sensation, but there’s no pain in his mind, no awareness of anything but a surge of heat as if the other’s touch has spilled liquid fire through his veins. He shoves back at Izaya’s hips, dragging friction up over the other’s cock under his palm more by grinding against him than stroking up over the hot-flushed length properly, and in front of him Izaya’s lashes flutter, Izaya’s lips part. Shizuo can see the points of those white teeth all but glowing bright behind the crimson color Izaya has painted onto his lips.

“Right,” Shizuo growls, and lifts his hand away from the magnetism of Izaya’s bare skin to fumble at his pants instead, to shove at the edges of his costume so he can force the fabric down and off the other’s hips to lay the pale of his thighs bare. “Then I get to mark you too.” He looks down at the tremble of Izaya’s legs, at the strain of tension arching his cock up towards the elegant details of his costume, and he reaches down and in, pushing his wrist between the other’s thighs so he can press his fingertips against the hot of Izaya’s entrance. “Fair’s fair.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Izaya groans. Shizuo can feel his body trembling against the weight of Shizuo’s touch, can feel the flutter of heat purring under the other’s skin as Shizuo’s fingers grind in and against him. “Is there lotion or…?”

Shizuo rumbles over something vaguely akin to a laugh. “I thought you’d be  _prepared_ ,” he says. “After dragging me up here like this, I half-expected you to have lube in your pocket or something.”

“It would ruin the lines of the costume,” Izaya drawls. Shizuo doesn’t even know if he’s serious; it’s impossible to tell, between the bright of his eyes and the tug of almost-a-laugh at his lips. Shizuo hisses and pushes harder against Izaya, threatening friction at the other’s body, and has the satisfaction of seeing Izaya’s composure give way to a gasping inhale and a tremor of heat before he clutches at Shizuo’s neck and collects himself. He tips his head to the side, his lashes fluttering as he tries to focus on their cluttered surroundings; Shizuo watches the motion of Izaya’s throat instead of following his example in looking around them. The pale skin makes a smooth curve, unmarred by any match for the bruises Izaya has been sucking into Shizuo’s shoulder since they stumbled out of the living room and towards the stairs; Shizuo can all but feel his mouth water, as if he’s the vampire in truth that Izaya is pretending to be.

“Here,” Izaya says; and he reaches out to fumble for a bottle on the far edge of the counter, leaning over to stretch for it without letting his hold on Shizuo’s neck go. Shizuo thinks for a moment Izaya is going to fall, that it’s going to be only that grip against his neck and his hand between the other’s thighs that keeps them upright; but Izaya catches himself before that point, saving his balance as he comes back up to huff a breath and press his thumb at the lid to open the bottle of lotion. “Good enough.”

“God,” Shizuo groans. It takes conscious effort to pull back from pressing friction against the heat of Izaya’s entrance and offer his hand palm-up for the other to spill lotion over his fingers. It smells like lavender against his skin, the scent spreading to fill the bathroom around them as Izaya closes the lid and drops the bottle and Shizuo reaches back to return his touch to Izaya’s body. “We really have to plan better than this.”

“Sure,” Izaya says, and tips his knees wider as his hand tightens at the back of Shizuo’s neck. “Next time  _you_  bring the lube, how about that.”

“Next time we use a  _bed_ ,” Shizuo counters. His fingers are back at Izaya’s body, the lotion gliding to make his movement far easier than it was before; it’s a simple thing to push up, to let the slick of the wet coating his fingers ease his thrust into the tension of Izaya before him. Izaya’s legs quiver, his breath hisses past clenched teeth, but he doesn’t flinch away, and as Shizuo pushes farther up into him he can see Izaya’s lashes dip, can feel the other’s body tightening and easing against the strain of his finger. “I’ve got a whole room to myself we could make use of.”

“Sounds luxurious,” Izaya says; he’s aiming for a purr, Shizuo thinks, but Shizuo’s working far up inside the heat of the other’s body, and the rumble of heat in the back of Izaya’s throat is pulled apart into tension that sounds more desperate than anything else. “Maybe I’ll come over Friday and stay all weekend.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo growls, and pushes up hard with his hand, tipping in to grind his forearm against Izaya’s cock, to pin the other’s length in against the flutter of his stomach and the smooth of his vest. Izaya’s hips jerk, his head goes back, and Shizuo chases him in, leaning closer to keep them near even as Izaya sags heavier against the support of the counter behind him. “I’ll take all your clothes off and keep you like that until Monday.”

“Ooo,” Izaya pants. “Kinky.” He lifts his free hand up to Shizuo’s neck; the shift deprives him of some measure of his own support, but Shizuo hardly minds taking on the weight of Izaya’s balance along with his own. They’re almost on top of the counter behind them anyway; it’s not as if they’re going to fall with their legs and arms as entangled as they are right now. “How will you keep me from putting them back on myself?”

“I’ll tie you to the bed,” Shizuo growls.

Izaya’s laugh is like electricity against Shizuo’s lips. “Like a dog?” His fingers curl in against the collar around Shizuo’s neck and tug to remind the other of its presence. “Maybe we should have swapped costumes, if that’s how you want to be.”

“Maybe.” Shizuo pushes against Izaya with another finger; there’s a moment of resistance, a flicker of Izaya’s forehead creasing with tension as he clenches involuntarily tight, as reflex wins out over the arousal slicking his cockhead to damp against Shizuo’s skin. Shizuo’s gaze slides down, trailing from the heavy dark of Izaya’s lashes to the part of his lips and all the way to the high collar of his cloak framing the curve of pale throat like an offering.

“You do have a beautiful neck,” Shizuo says; and then he’s leaning in, and opening his mouth, and when he catches his teeth hard against pale skin he can feel Izaya’s body jolt, can hear the full-throated groan of heat spilling from the other’s throat. Izaya’s fingers seize hard against Shizuo’s shoulders, his fingernails catching and scratching marks of his own; and his body eases, opening in a surrender that lets Shizuo’s second finger slide up and into him. Shizuo pushes at once, forcing deep into Izaya’s body in one smooth stroke, and he can feel Izaya’s breath catch under the press of his mouth, can feel the strain of reflex bearing down on him for a heartbeat of time before Izaya consciously sags into relaxation. Shizuo makes a low sound in the back of his throat, a rumble as much satisfaction as strain, and when he draws his hand back it’s in one long pull, almost letting his fingers slide free of Izaya’s entrance entirely before he drives back up and in. Izaya spasms, moaning as if Shizuo’s touch is forcing the sound out of him, and Shizuo eases the press of his teeth against Izaya’s skin and draws back by an inch to pant heat against his neck instead.

“You don’t seem like much of a vampire,” he says, spilling the words hot over Izaya’s shoulder while his fingers thrust into the other’s body to push him open while Shizuo’s cock throbs in answering anticipation against the strain of Izaya’s thigh angled up between his own. “They’re supposed to have cold skin, aren’t they?” Another drive, hard enough to bury the whole length of his fingers within Izaya’s body; Izaya groans, his cock twitches hard against Shizuo’s wrist. “And you’re burning up.”

Izaya huffs a laugh. Shizuo can hear the strain on it even without his mouth drawing close over the tension in the other’s throat. “That’d be your fault,” he manages, and tips his knees wider as if to give Shizuo encouragement to press deeper into the give of his body. “I guess vampires aren’t supposed to drink from werewolves, huh?”

“Everyone knows that,” Shizuo says, and bites against Izaya’s neck again. Izaya moans at that, his head tipping far to the side like he’s letting all his strength give way to the edge of Shizuo’s teeth, and Shizuo presses his lips in tight and sucks into the dark of a bruise to mark that pale skin. “What are you going to do now, Izaya?”

“There’s only one course of action left,” Izaya says. He’s putting on a desperate voice, something skirting the edge of melodrama, but with the heat in his tone the mocking edge is stripped away and it falls into throaty, purring desire instead. “Are you going to take responsibility, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo growls into Izaya’s throat. “Don’t call me that,” he says, feeling the words rumble into something like a laugh in his throat, and he pulls his fingers free in one slick slide, fast so it leaves Izaya trembling with the friction of it while Shizuo is yet grabbing at the other’s hips. “Is this what you mean?” he asks, and he’s pulling Izaya hard, dragging the other in against him so he can twist him over and against the counter to urge him down over the support. Izaya braces his hands against the cool surface, his fingers splaying wide to hold himself steady, and Shizuo is left to grab at the back of Izaya’s costume cape and yank hard to pull it free of the other’s neck. Izaya hisses, whether from the pressure giving way or in concern for his clothes, Shizuo doesn’t know and doesn’t bother asking; he’s already tossing the cape aside and reaching out for Izaya’s hips instead, catching his fingers under the fall of the other’s shirt so he can push it up to collect around the narrow angle of Izaya’s waist instead. “The antidote is sleeping with the enemy?”

“Consider it hair of the dog,” Izaya drawls. He’s looking into the mirror in front of them; when Shizuo looks up at their reflection Izaya’s mouth is curving on a smile, the edges of it drawing up tight over the sharp edges of those teeth. “Is this how you want me?”

“Yes,” Shizuo says, that one word short and certain, and he lets his hold on Izaya’s hip go so he can reach for the front of his own loose costume pants and undo the few fastenings keeping them on. There’s a button at the top and a zipper that’s longer than it needs to be, to let the leggings fit better; he only undoes it by a handspan, enough to free the strain of his cock without letting his pants fall entirely to tangle at his ankles. He closes his grip around himself, fitting his fingers in against the flushed heat of his length as he strokes up once and twice, easing himself into the idea of friction in advance of pushing forward to fuck into the open heat of Izaya before him. “Just like that.”

“Bent over for your use,” Izaya considers. “How appropriate.” He’s watching Shizuo in their reflection, when Shizuo looks up; but not his face, not to meet the dark of the other’s gaze with the heat-crimson of his own. His lashes are dipped, his focus trailing the movement of Shizuo’s hand around himself; Shizuo can see Izaya’s lips shift, can see the tension in his throat move as he watches.

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, and slides his hand back to the base of his cock to brace himself in place. “I told you we could have been in a bed.”

“Oh no,” Izaya says, his voice bright and sharp on the illusion of calm he’s adopting. “I’m not complaining.” His gaze flickers up to meet Shizuo’s stare, his lips drag wider on a grin. “I kind of like the idea of being taken like an animal.”

Shizuo raises an eyebrow. “Do you?” he says, and he takes a step closer without looking away from Izaya’s smile, without breaking eye contact between them. Izaya shifts his feet apart to make room for Shizuo between them but he doesn’t duck his head, doesn’t so much as blink to break the stare he and Shizuo are sharing. Shizuo guides himself by familiarity as much as touch, letting the muscle memory of uncounted interludes draw him closer, until when the head of his cock slides over Izaya he can feel it catch at the other’s entrance without needing to look down, without needing the flicker of Izaya’s lashes to tell him he’s lined up. Shizuo leans in closer, reaching out to brace himself with a hand just against the outside of Izaya’s as he keeps staring into their reflection; Izaya is breathing harder, Shizuo can feel it against his chest, but he doesn’t duck his head, doesn’t blink to flinch away. “Is this what you want, Izaya?”

Izaya’s lips part, his breath spills from him. Shizuo can see it cloud against the mirror for a moment before the haze fades. “Yes.”

Shizuo blinks slow, the languid satisfaction of a predator pulling at his lashes. “Good,” he says; and then he lets his hips buck forward, lets his cock slide free of his bracing hold, and he watches Izaya’s mouth come open, watches Izaya’s cheeks flush, watches the whole of Izaya’s expression go slack on heat as Shizuo pushes forward to sheathe himself in the grip of the other’s body. It’s only Izaya’s eyes that cling to focus, and even that is strained and desperate; Shizuo can see the effort of it in the tilt of the other’s chin, in the tension clinging to the corners of his eyelids.

Shizuo leans in close, still holding that reflected-back eye contact as if he’s pinning Izaya in place with it, as if the focus of his gaze is the only thing bracing the other still. “Izaya,” he says, the name a little bit a purr and mostly a growl in his throat; and then he grips hard at the other’s hip, and draws back to buck forward again, and Izaya’s lashes finally dip, his head tipping back as his throat strains over a moan as helpless as it is heated. Shizuo growls, satisfaction filling him as much from Izaya’s surrender as from the feel of the other’s body fluttering around him in straining, convulsive waves of sensation, and he moves again, digging his fingers in hard at Izaya’s hip to brace the other still, to draw him back and onto the forward motion of Shizuo’s cock working into him.

“Fuck,” Shizuo growls, more for the relief of the word at his lips than from any expectation of Izaya actually hearing him, much less making sense of the half-coherency that is the best he has to offer. “You’re so--” and he stalls to silence, giving up the clarity of words to punctuate with a snapping motion of his hips, the movement hard enough to rock Izaya forward against the edge of the counter. Izaya groans, heat spilling from his throat like steam to fill the room; against the counter he shifts a hand, reaching out to clutch at Shizuo’s wrist and push against the other’s support to brace himself in place. Shizuo’s spine prickles with heat, inside Izaya his cock twitches with arousal, and he stutters through an arrhythmic movement to fuck hard into the tension of Izaya’s body before him. “ _God_.”

It’s always like this, as it has been in the handful of weeks since their first fateful meeting at that coffee shop. Izaya snaps words like blows, and laughs in Shizuo’s face as if to throw gasoline on the fire of the other’s temper, and then when Shizuo is just ready to shove him against a wall and crush bruises into that pretty face he slumps back into surrender, and spreads his legs, and Shizuo finds himself lost in an expression of heat instead of rage, of desire instead of anger. Izaya capitulates, like this, gives way to the drive of Shizuo’s fingers and the heat of his cock as he never does to even the best words Shizuo can find to offer; and there’s something satisfying to it, some heat that purrs low in Shizuo’s stomach like he’s never felt before every time they’re together like this, whether in Shizuo’s bed or the tangled sheets of a hotel or here, in a cramped bathroom at a stranger’s home. The details never matter, the setting makes no difference; because in the end it’s always simple, just like this: Shizuo’s body sliding forward to fit itself against Izaya’s and Izaya shaking beneath him, his fingers tightening against Shizuo’s wrist as if to mark out a matching rhythm for the force of the other’s cock working inside him, for the tension of his body seizing hard against the other with every forward thrust. Izaya’s eyes are shut, his cheeks are flushed, his lips are parted; even the sharp edges of those costume teeth he’s wearing aren’t enough to take the slack weight of heat from his expression, aren’t enough to hold Shizuo’s attention to the warm wet of the other’s mouth. His gaze slides down instead, following the strain against Izaya’s jaw to the curve of his throat and the pale of the skin against his rumpled collar. There’s a pattern of color there, the effect of Shizuo’s mouth making itself known in the weight of purpling red and the start of blue against the edge of Izaya’s collarbone; it makes Shizuo growl satisfaction in the back of his throat and brings his hips jerking forward roughly enough that Izaya rocks in against the counter and moans another wanting sound in the back of his throat. Izaya’s head tips forward, his hair slides to fall and shadow his face; and Shizuo is moving at once, without even thinking, letting his grip at Izaya’s hip go so he can reach for that shining hair instead and make a fist on the strands enough to pull the other’s head up and back into the light once more.

“No,” he says, and it’s a purr of satisfaction as much as a growl of irritation, he can feel the word rumbling down in the depths of his chest in time with the heat shuddering down his spine and trembling in his thighs with every forward thrust he takes into Izaya before him. “Let me see you.”

Izaya’s mouth quirks onto a smile, his breath rushes on a laugh. “Like to see what’s yours?” he suggests, the words mocking at his lips; but then Shizuo’s hips come forward, his cock pumps deep into the other’s body, and he can feel the way Izaya jerks with it, can see the tremor in the other’s lashes as his smile falls slack, as his throat strains on a moan. It takes him a moment to collect himself, Shizuo can see the struggle for it as clear on Izaya’s features as he can see the straining heat of his cock curving up against the smooth flat of the counter; and Shizuo just watches, staring at the heat burning across Izaya’s cheeks and soft at his lips as the other swallows, and takes a breath, and loosens his grip on Shizuo’s wrist.

“Here,” Izaya says, and he’s lifting his fingers to his collar, catching the shine of ivory buttons under his fingertips to push them free of the fabric. The shirt falls open as fast as he moves, hanging loose under its own weight to leave the slim line of Izaya’s neck clear to see in their reflection, the tension of pleasure in it as much as the print of Shizuo’s mouth rising clear under the pale. “Have your fill, Shizu-chan.” Shizuo drags back at Izaya’s hair, pulling harder against the strands in silent rejection of that too-familiar nickname; but Izaya just grins, brilliant and blinding, and reaches down for his untouched cock with the hand not occupied in bracing himself steady against the counter. There’s an elegance to the way his fingers curl around himself, a grace to the flex of his wrist as he drags up; and then his lashes flutter, his throat strains on a moan, and all Shizuo’s attention to the visual appeal of Izaya’s position is scattered in the rush of physical sensation that swamps him as Izaya tenses around him, his body drawing tight on the fresh surge of friction as he jerks over himself. Shizuo’s fist tightens, his arm flexes to pull Izaya back more sharply, and when he moves it’s with speed, instinct and intention both surging him hotter and harder with every thrust he takes into the strung-bow arch of Izaya’s body before him.

Speech gives way along with coherency. It’s impossible to put words to thought when those thoughts are fracturing along all their seams, are melting and bleeding themselves to the evocative incoherence of panting inhales and straining gasps. Izaya’s gone boneless in Shizuo’s hold, has let himself slump into the weight of helpless surrender under Shizuo’s fist in his hair and the locked-elbow support of his arm against the counter; the only action he’s taking on his own is that hand jerking hard over himself as his fingers catch and drag over the dark-flushed curve of his cock. Shizuo wishes he could free a hand to take over that motion too -- there’s a heat to the thought, of pulling Izaya back against him and laying claim to every focus point of his pleasure at once, to claiming Izaya’s orgasm like a victory for himself -- but he can’t get his fingers to ease from Izaya’s hair, can’t give up the smooth curve of the other’s body from his tipped-back head and kiss-bruised neck down to the open line of his shirt and the fumble of his fingers pulling over himself. There’s too much detail, too much satisfaction in the view of it; and so Shizuo keeps holding Izaya in place, bracing the other back against him as he lets his hips find a rhythm for the steady motion of his cock slipping back and thrusting forward into Izaya’s body. His breathing is coming louder, the air feels heavy and thick around them; but Izaya is panting more than enough to drown out the sound of Shizuo’s inhales, his throat straining on every exhale until they spill past his lips with the force of moans. Shizuo watches the motion of them, watches the thrum of vibration ripple down Izaya’s throat and tremble at his damp-parted lips; and he keeps moving, harder with each thrust, matching and surpassing the desperate slide of Izaya’s grip on himself as if to force the other to greater pleasure.

Shizuo can see Izaya’s orgasm building in him. It’s an obvious thing, angled as they are; with the shine of the mirror to throw Izaya’s expression back to him Shizuo can see the way Izaya’s lashes start to flutter with true weight instead of the illusion of it, can see when the held-back tension at the corners of his mouth slips slack and shaky with heat. Izaya’s hand speeds, his rhythm giving way to the frantic heat of rising anticipation; against the counter his fingers are tensing, dragging against the smooth surface as if desperate for traction. Shizuo hisses, tasting the edge of triumph on his tongue, and when he moves it’s to rock in closer, to tip forward and down until his chest is pressing flush against Izaya’s shoulders, until the weight of his body is threatening the curve of Izaya’s beneath him. His mouth presses close against Izaya’s hair, his breath ruffles the shine of the dark strands before him; Izaya’s throat works on some desperate, unvoiced noise, even the drag of sound in his chest stalling on the tension building in him. Shizuo watches the shift of Izaya’s mouth, watches the tension straining against his lips; and then he tips his head to press his mouth against Izaya’s ear, and he growls a sound as much raw heat as it is encouragement.

“ _Izaya_ ,” he says; and again, as Izaya jerks against him, as his breathing sticks in response to the other’s voice. “You look so  _good_ ,” with a punctuation of his hips slamming forward, of his fingers pulling back. Izaya whimpers, far off and straining in his throat, and Shizuo keeps going, letting words tumble from his lips with every forward stroke of his hips, with every long slide of his cock. “I love having you like this” as his fingers clench, as his hips buck. “Moaning and shaking and  _desperate_ , you’re so  _hot_  when you’re about to come.” Izaya’s breath rushes from him, the heat of it fogging the mirror for a moment, and Shizuo draws the other’s head as far back as he can, pulling until he can see the tension straining against Izaya’s throat, until the other’s head is tipping far back to let the light overhead fall clear against the bruises Shizuo printed at his neck.

“Like that,” Shizuo purrs, and there’s no frustration on his tone at all anymore, there’s nothing but warm, satisfied anticipation. “Come for me, Izaya.” Izaya’s lips part, Izaya’s throat works; and then his hand slips, and his hips jerk, and he does, hiccuping and gasping for air as Shizuo watches the strain of pleasure course through the whole of the other’s body before him. It brings Shizuo’s hips jerking forward, tightens his whole body with raw, unfettered appreciation, and there’s no thought left in him as he moves to thrust in against the tremor of Izaya’s orgasm, to ride out the waves of heat surging through the other’s body around him. His focus is gone, his vision is hazy; he’s not looking at the mirror anymore, not thinking about his hold on Izaya’s hair, or the flex of the other’s fingers on the counter, or even the strain in his own arm from holding himself up. His whole world has narrowed down to the curve of Izaya’s cheekbones before his eyes, and the shadow of the other’s lashes against his skin, and the convulsive quivers of heat seizing Izaya tight around the slide of Shizuo’s cock into the other’s body; and then Shizuo’s breath catches, his shoulders tighten, and even that gives way, until the groan of Izaya’s name on his lips is a reflex more than a plea, a moan of appreciation and desire in equal parts as Shizuo’s body crests forward to spill his pleasure into Izaya before him.

They’re both still for a moment. After a breath Shizuo collects himself enough to let the fist he has in Izaya’s hair go and Izaya promptly lets himself sag into surrender, ducking his head to fall forward under its own weight as his hair slides forward against the back of his neck. Shizuo tips his head to watch the motion of it; he can see the pull of bone drawing under delicate skin, can watch the shift of Izaya’s shoulders tipping forward pulled into visibility against the back of his neck. There’s quiet for a span, nothing but the sound of their breathing tangling together and the tremor of aftershocks and physical exertion together shaking in Izaya’s shoulders; and finally Izaya stirs, and lifts his head, and Shizuo looks up from the back of the other’s neck to meet Izaya’s gaze in the reflection of the mirror before them.

“Happy Halloween, Shizu-chan,” Izaya manages. His voice is rough, dragged raw on heat like it’s showing the marks of Shizuo’s touch as clearly as the pale skin of his throat; the sound purrs down Shizuo’s spine like electricity, as if it’s winding into his veins and making a home for itself around the beat of his heart. “Is this a trick or a treat, do you think?”

Shizuo meets the shadow of Izaya’s eyes in their reflection, catching and holding the heat-hazed focus of the other’s gaze on him. Izaya’s lashes are heavy, his cheeks are pink with heat; even with his costume teeth still on and his lips painted to a blood-red crimson, he looks like nothing so much as himself, dazed and warm and satisfied by the effect of Shizuo’s touch on him.

“Both,” Shizuo says; and he ducks in, and presses his mouth close against the back of Izaya’s neck.

He doesn’t leave a bruise this time, but the hum of pleasure in Izaya’s throat is enough to warm the whole of his body all the same.


	3. November

There’s a storm forming on the horizon. Shizuo’s been watching it all day, idly through the windows of his classroom and with somewhat more immediate concern during the gap hour he had for lunch, watching the grey clouds build on themselves to pile one atop the other and gain weight and density with every passing hour. The rain held off for the morning and the first hours of the afternoon, lingering as the temperature dropped colder and colder, until by the time the storm finally broke it sent snowflakes drifting to the ground instead of raindrops to patter against the waiting earth. It’s cold outside, the air turning to ice with every passing hour and every slow-accumulating inch of snow; but Shizuo doesn’t mind.

He’s plenty warm right where he is.

“ _Ah_ ,” Izaya groans, his thighs tensing hard around Shizuo’s hips as Shizuo takes a long thrust into him, drawing the motion slow like he’s savouring the full force of it. “God, Shizu-chan, right there.”

“There?” Shizuo asks, more to purr over the taste of the word than because he really needs the instruction. He braces himself on the rug over Izaya’s shoulder and reaches down to fit his hand against the sweat-slick of the other’s bare hip to hold him steady against the thrust of Shizuo moving forward and into him. “Like that, Izaya?”

Izaya groans. “ _Fuck_ ” so loud Shizuo can hear it echo, like he’s trying to fill the whole of the space around them with the sound of his voice. It makes Shizuo’s spine prickle with self-consciousness, with the instinct of a shared house too well-learned for him to forget now; but there’s no one else within the expansive walls of Izaya’s house but themselves, and if Izaya screams loud enough for the neighbors to hear Shizuo thinks he might consider that more an accomplishment than anything else. It’s hard to think of anyone else at all, with the quiet of the snow piling around the house to muffle the rest of the world to silence; it’s like the boundaries of Shizuo’s world are sliding in around him, narrowing to the span of Izaya’s arms around his neck, and Izaya’s body curving under him, and Izaya’s breathing coming ragged and loud at his ears. Their movement together is easy, smooth and fluid as if the last months have been practice, as if they have memorized how to fit together, and Shizuo doesn’t have to think about this any more than he ever has, with Izaya. It’s like magnetism, the way his hips slot against Izaya’s legs, the way Izaya’s back curves to meet his touch; and he’s losing himself to it now, his hand sliding up and back to press at Izaya’s spine and pin them closer as he ducks his head against the other’s shoulder and gasps for air at the angle of his collarbone. He keeps moving, slow-heavy strokes to knock the air from Izaya’s lungs, to leave him moaning breathless heat to the air, and he doesn’t stop, even as his thighs begin to tremble and his shoulder begins to ache. Everything is hazy, everything is flickering with heat; and then Izaya seizes on a breath, and says “Shizuo” with such clarity that Shizuo stalls himself halfway through the rhythm of another thrust.

“What,” he says, and he’s lifting his head from Izaya’s shoulder, he’s pushing up to blink down at the other in an attempt to regain traction on the situation. “What’s wrong?”

Izaya’s face is flushed, his lips parted on the huff of his breathing. When he shakes his head a few strands of dark hair stick to the sweat at his hairline. “Nothing,” he says, and he winds his fingers up into Shizuo’s hair, curling his grip to a fist on the strands and tugging gently as his mouth twists on a smirk. “I just wanted to see if you were still capable of paying attention to your surroundings. You seemed pretty lost in the moment.”

Shizuo huffs a breath of frustration and feels his mouth dragging down onto a frown. “Of course I was,” he says, not without a touch of heat on the words. “I’m having  _sex_  with you. Do you want me to be thinking about anything else?”

“Mm,” Izaya hums, his cheeks flushing as his smile tugs wider. “No” and he’s pulling Shizuo in and down, urging the other against him with the full strength of his arms as well as a leg angled up to catch around Shizuo’s hip. Shizuo lets himself be pulled down, even with the frustration of his frown still at his lips, and he doesn’t resist when Izaya tips to push them both sideways over the rug either. Izaya pulls against his shoulder, and rocks in to lean up for a kiss, and Shizuo lets his hand slide up the other’s spine to brace between the shift of Izaya’s shoulderblades and hold him steady as Izaya kisses all his already hazy focus right out of clarity. Izaya shifts, twisting in to slide himself up and over Shizuo’s hips, and by the time they’re pulling away it’s Izaya who’s kneeling over Shizuo, his thighs splayed open around the other’s hips and his knees pressing close against the floor beneath them.

“Even better,” Izaya purrs, and presses a hand to Shizuo’s chest to push himself upright. Shizuo lets Izaya slide free of his hold, blinking to bring his gaze back into focus as Izaya sits up over him; the motion shifts his angle within the other’s body and twitches a shudder of involuntary heat up his spine. Izaya dips his lashes, his lips parting as he splays his fingers wide against Shizuo’s stomach to steady himself as he rocks back as if to settle himself onto the heat of Shizuo’s cock inside him; Shizuo can’t help the way his thighs jerk, the way his hips buck up to thrust for an extra half-inch of depth against Izaya atop him. Izaya’s lips part and he moans overloud once more; but his pleasure isn’t entirely a show, if the way his cock twitches towards his stomach is any indication. “ _Much_  better.”

Shizuo takes a breath and lets it out slowly. The room feels warmer now than it did; Izaya’s tipped them closer to the fireplace crackling several feet away, and Shizuo would swear he can feel the additional proximity burning against him. Then again, that might have more to do with the way the light is flickering over the sheen of sweat coating Izaya’s skin and the way the other is lifting his gaze to fix Shizuo with the full shadowed force of his stare.

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, and he lifts his hand to Izaya’s hip to settle his fingers there, to tighten his grip like a promise. Izaya’s mouth quirks, trying on the angle of a smile without quite committing to it, and then Shizuo reaches out with his free hand to skim against the line of the other’s cock, to tease friction against the swollen head of it, and Izaya’s laughter melts instead into parted lips and heavy lashes. “I like it too.”

Izaya’s mouth curves. “Do you?” he asks. His hand at Shizuo’s stomach tenses, his arm flexes to brace himself steady; Shizuo knows what’s coming even before Izaya’s thighs strain to lift his weight up by an inch, to draw up and away from the length of Shizuo’s cock in him before he lets himself sink back down onto the strain of it. Shizuo hisses a breath that pulls to a groan around the tension in his throat and Izaya’s smile pulls wider, spreading warm across his face before he curves his shoulders in and tips forward to brace himself against Shizuo’s chest. His fingers flex, his palms press hard, and when he moves again Shizuo can feel the force of Izaya’s balance bearing down on him like the other is trying to brace him to stillness where he lies. Shizuo doesn’t mind -- it’s not as if he has anywhere else he wants to be -- and he answers in kind, sliding his hand back and around to grip hard at Izaya’s hip to steady the other while he fits his fingers around Izaya’s cock, tightening his hold to skirt the edge of pressure while he presses his thumb hard against the head. Izaya groans without stuttering in his pace, his muscles flexing tight around the heat of Shizuo’s cock inside him, and Shizuo rubs in against him again, letting the texture of his thumb draw over the taut-swollen soft of Izaya’s cockhead while the other fucks himself down on Shizuo’s length. He can feel the surge of heat that flushes Izaya harder against Shizuo’s fingers with every drag of his thumb, can feel the wet of precome starting to collect under his touch to ease the friction of his motion, and he’s just starting to circle in and against the head when Izaya takes a ragged breath and says “Are you going to jerk me off or do you just want to tease me?” with something very close to frustration on the words.

Shizuo snorts a laugh. “I dunno,” he says as he lets his thumb slide away to close into a grip against Izaya’s cock instead. “Desperation  _is_  a good look on you.”

“I’ll show you--” Izaya starts; and then Shizuo pulls his hand up hard, without loosening the hold he has on the other’s length, and whatever Izaya was going to say breaks off into a sharp moan of heat instead. “ _Fuck_.”

“Yeah,” Shizuo says, and strokes up over Izaya again. “Keep going” but Izaya is moving already, without waiting for the suggestion at Shizuo’s lips. His hands tighten, his shoulders flex, and when he pushes himself up this time it’s in one long slide of motion, so drawn-out that Shizuo thinks for a moment Izaya’s going to pull off him entirely; and then back, all at once, slotting their hips together with a speed that leaves Shizuo groaning, that tightens his grip against Izaya’s cock even as he strokes over the other with frantic speed. Izaya’s breathing harder, moving faster, his thighs flexing hard around Shizuo’s hips as he fucks himself down and over the solid heat of Shizuo’s cock inside him; and Shizuo is moving just as fast, the pace of his hold on Izaya’s length speeding to match and answer the drive of his cock into the other’s body with each of Izaya’s movements. It’s like their bodies are a cresting wave, as if they are fitting together to become part of a single entity, a single unified existence; the idea makes Shizuo’s breath catch, dizzies his thoughts and fires his blood with every stroke he takes to drag up over the heat of Izaya’s cock in his grip. Izaya is trembling, his whole body shaking over Shizuo as he presses back and down to seek out his own pleasure via Shizuo’s cock moving inside him; but Shizuo’s thighs are flexing too, and there’s heat knotting low in his stomach with all the force of inevitability, as if it’s following the guidance of Izaya’s body stroking over him towards the sheer edge of pleasure.

“Fuck,” Izaya is gasping, his body straining with each motion he takes, his fingers tightening against Shizuo’s stomach. “Fu _ck_ ,  _Shizuo_ ” and Shizuo doesn’t even have the words to growl appreciation for the absence of the usual teasing nickname, doesn’t have the presence of mind to offer up anything but a groan from the depths of his chest and a thrust of his hips hard enough to rock Izaya up and out-of-rhythm for a moment. Izaya’s back curves, his head tips back; Shizuo can see the shine of light against the pale of the other’s chest, can see the strain in Izaya’s throat as his teeth catch at his lip, a line of white to dig in hard against the soft color of his mouth. His nipples are taut against his chest, tightened to hard points of flushed arousal; Shizuo lets his grip on Izaya’s hip go to reach up instead, to curl his fingers in against the flutter of breathing in Izaya’s ribcage and slide his thumb up and over one of those dark points. Izaya jerks with the contact, hissing over a sound that falls somewhere between shock and encouragement; Shizuo can feel Izaya’s cock swell in his hold, can feel the surge of heat that comes with the friction of his touch against that sensitive skin.

“Izaya,” he hears himself saying, and his voice is strange, low and heavy and purring with heat he couldn’t put there if he tried consciously. It’s being drawn out of him, pulled up his throat by the press of Izaya’s thighs at his and the slide of Izaya’s body clenching around him as surely as that tide of pleasure is rising to crush over him from every stroke Izaya takes over his length. Shizuo seizes on a breath and presses his thumb in harder, flicking over the tip of Izaya’s nipple to draw another shudder from the other’s body, to pull another one of those electric quivers of sensation from him. “God, Izaya.”

Izaya groans past his tight-clenched teeth, whimpering until he sounds almost pain-bright with desperation. He’s arching back over Shizuo’s lap, his body twisting to push against Shizuo’s palm at his chest, to rock into Shizuo’s fist around his cock, to grind himself back down onto the other’s length inside him; Shizuo can feel the way Izaya’s legs are quivering, can feel the telltale signs of rising heat in the erratic jerk of the other’s hips and the pant of his breathing. He tightens his hold on Izaya’s cock, pressing his fingers in hard just under the head, where he knows Izaya will quiver and jolt with the sensation, and when he opens his mouth it’s to let heat spill past his lips, to give voice to the other’s name in a sound that he can feel resonating all down the length of his spine.

“Izaya” low, rumbling in his throat, quivering at his lips; and then again, with a thrust of his hips to drive deeper into the other’s body, to reflexively chase down his own pleasure, “ _Izaya_ ” closer to a moan this time than before, dragged raw on the want Shizuo can feel building against the inside of his chest. Izaya tenses through the whole of his body -- thighs, stomach, chest, throat -- every muscle in him seizing tight with premonition; and then Shizuo pushes in hard with his thumb, and strokes up sharply with his grip, and all that tension gives way at once, breaking free of Izaya’s body in a long tremor of heat that falls as a full-throated groan from his lips as he spasms and comes over Shizuo beneath him. His cock jerks, striping wet over Shizuo’s tight-clenched fingers and the span of his chest and stomach; his shoulders tip forward, pressing hard against Shizuo’s palm as his body shudders with helpless convulsions of pleasure that clench as tight around Shizuo’s cock as if he’s trying to urge the other’s orgasm from him via his own. Shizuo thinks Izaya might be more likely to succeed in that than otherwise; he can feel his breathing dragging hot on desperation in his chest, can hear the raw edge of strain in his throat with every inhale he takes.

“Fuck,” Shizuo pants, stroking over Izaya’s cock in his grip to urge the other through the last of his orgasm even as his own builds to certainty, as his balls tighten and his cock twitches in answer to the flutter of Izaya coming around him. “God” and he has to let Izaya go, has to free his hand so he can clutch at the other’s hip instead, can drop both palms to bracket Izaya’s body and hold him in place while Shizuo’s hips jerk up to thrust into him with frantic, instinctive need. Shizuo’s body is tensing, his breathing speeding; and over him Izaya shudders with the last of his aftershocks, and slumps forward against that hand bracing at Shizuo’s stomach, and opens his eyes to look down at the other. His eyes are dark, his gaze is hazy; the signs of his pleasure are printed clear in the slack part of his lips and the weight of his lashes, even as he lets Shizuo’s hold on him rock him back through the resumed motion of the other fucking up into him. He looks undone, as if the facade of smirking laughter that usually clings to his lips and lurks behind his eyes is stripped away to offer a glimpse into some dark, endless sincerity that Shizuo has never had a chance to properly see before. It makes Shizuo’s chest tense, makes his fingers seize at Izaya’s hips, and deep down in his stomach he can feel a surge of heat as that knot of building anticipation strains and gives way to certainty.

“God,” he groans, “ _Izaya_ ” and his hands jerk to pull Izaya down, Izaya slides back in slack surrender, and as Shizuo’s orgasm crests to break over him it’s Izaya who shudders with it, who gives voice to the other’s heat in the whimper of an exhale that spills past his lips. His eyelashes flutter, his lips part as if Shizuo’s pleasure is his own, as if Shizuo coming into him is enough to run another aftershock through his spent body, and Shizuo gusts an exhale and lets his orgasm spill heavy through him. His thighs jerk, his cock twitches, his fingers seize; and then the tension gives way, the high brilliance of sensation melts into the weight of satisfaction, and Shizuo lets himself slump heavy to the floor beneath him as his orgasm gives way to afterglow. He eases his fingers at Izaya’s hips, loosening his hold so he can let his palm slide in and against the other’s skin; and Izaya tips forward at once, moving as if Shizuo’s touch was a cue for him to slide free of the other’s cock so he can lean in and against the support of Shizuo’s chest. Izaya’s weight presses against the other’s body, his legs shift to slide and tangle with Shizuo’s as his hands come up to wind into the other’s hair, and Shizuo lets his arm curl in to rest at the dip of Izaya’s waist as he shuts his eyes and takes a moment to breathe the quiet calm of the room into his lungs.

They stay still for several long minutes like that, bodies pressed close together in a tangle of warm sweat and sticky pleasure; from how slack Izaya has gone against him, Shizuo wonders if the other might not have drifted into the beginnings of a nap against the support of his chest. He hardly minds -- even the extra warmth of the other’s body against his is more pleasant than otherwise, given the cool of the storm outside, and there’s always a strange, breathless pleasure to Izaya going quiet and still as he so rarely is. Shizuo lies still under Izaya, with his arm pressing just over the curve of the other’s hips and his gaze wandering idly over the firelight playing at the ceiling without really seeing it; and then Izaya breaks the silence at once without any motion to indicate he is intending to do so. “What are you thinking about, Shizu-chan?”

Shizuo blinks and tips his head down, craning his neck to look at Izaya against his shoulder. “You’re awake.”

Izaya’s lashes shift as he looks up to meet Shizuo’s gaze. “Obviously,” he says, but he’s close enough to a smile to strip away any sarcastic bite the word might have. “That’s not an answer.”

“Oh.” Shizuo lets his head fall back to the floor and blinks up at the ceiling overhead. “I don’t know.”

Izaya huffs a laugh. Shizuo can feel the heat of it spill against the side of his neck and along his shoulder like water. “I suppose it’s a bit much to expect you to have an original thought even at the best of times.”

Shizuo growls and lifts his free hand to shove at the dip of Izaya’s waist. “Shut up.” Izaya just laughs, purring over the sound in a way that Shizuo can feel ache pleasant heat in his spent body, and Shizuo’s own lips quirk unwillingly onto a smile. “I kind of want a cigarette.”

“Okay,” Izaya says, with a flat tone that says this is a perfectly mundane desire. “So have one.”

Shizuo grimaces. “It’s snowing,” he says without lifting his head to look out the window at the slow drift of flakes falling to coat the ground outside. “It’s not worth the cold.”

Izaya huffs. “You don’t have to go outside,” he says, and he pushes up from Shizuo’s shoulder to gain enough space to achieve some motion himself. Shizuo shifts his hold to the other’s hips to steady Izaya in whatever it is he intends to do but Izaya doesn’t even glance down as he braces a hand at the floor over Shizuo’s shoulder and stretches out for something barely within arm’s reach. Shizuo’s attention is held by the flush of heat under Izaya’s skin and the shine of sweat collecting at the other’s collarbone; he’s just thinking about lifting his head to press his lips there and lick against the faint edge of salt when Izaya comes back in, rocking back over Shizuo’s hips beneath him as he holds out the box of cigarettes he’s just freed from Shizuo’s dropped jeans. “Here.”

Shizuo glances at the box, considering it for a moment before he looks back up to Izaya. “I can’t smoke in your house.”

“You can,” Izaya tells him. He thumbs open the box of cigarettes one-handed and shakes the box to attain one; when he ducks down it’s to catch the end between his teeth and draw it free, bracing his lips around the cigarette while he closes the box and tosses it back to rejoin Shizuo’s fallen clothes. When he draws the cigarette free of his lips it’s with a flourish, something sweeping and artistic and better suited to a film than to the mundanities of reality. “I’m giving you permission right now.”

Shizuo frowns. “Are you sure?”

Izaya rolls his eyes. “Yes,” he says, and reaches to press the cigarette to Shizuo’s lips, holding it steady until the other opens his mouth enough to take it. “It’s fine.”

Shizuo huffs. “Fine,” he says, and lets Izaya’s hip go to catch and adjust the cigarette at his lips. “Do you have a lighter?”

Izaya’s smirk tugs hard at the corner of his mouth. “So demanding,” he teases. “First you want to smoke inside, now you want me to light your cigarette for you?” But he’s moving anyway, leaning forward for their tangled clothes again; it’s an easier reach, this time, as he catches his fingers into the waistband of his own jeans and tugs them in towards them. Shizuo tips his head to the side to watch the elegant shift of Izaya’s fingers and the flex of his arm as he draws the fabric towards him and reaches into the angle of the pocket for the lighter within; he draws the metal free with a twist of his hand to bring the weight of it up and open in one gesture, so he’s offering an open flame instead of the lighter itself as he reaches out towards Shizuo.

“You’re good at that,” Shizuo mumbles, bracing his cigarette between both fingers so he can hold the end against the open flame and inhale to catch the paper alight. Izaya draws the lighter back as quickly as Shizuo lets himself fall back towards the floor and reaches up to set it aside as Shizuo takes a first long breath off the cigarette. “Did you used to smoke too?”

Izaya shakes his head. “No,” he says, leaning back in to pillow his head against Shizuo’s shoulder again. “I just set my board games on fire a lot as a child.”

Shizuo glances at him sideways; but if Izaya’s joking there’s no trace of it in his expression. “Are you serious?”

Izaya’s mouth tugs up at the corner. “Maybe,” he says. He reaches out to touch his fingertips against Shizuo’s cigarette, close to the base where it’s pressed against the other’s lips; Shizuo can feel the weight of Izaya’s fingertips dragging just against his mouth. “I never see you smoking.”

“It’s a bad habit,” Shizuo admits. “There’s no smoking allowed on campus, and even when I’m at home I try to go outside whenever I do have one.”

Izaya’s smile pulls wider. “And you’re rarely attired for that.”

“Not when you’re over,” Shizuo agrees. Izaya hums soft agreement in the back of his throat. He’s still touching against Shizuo’s cigarette, pressing his fingertips close against the crinkle of the paper; Shizuo isn’t sure if it’s the cigarette itself or Shizuo’s mouth that Izaya is more interested in, and he’s not about to complain in either case. He cuts his gaze sideways to watch Izaya’s focus flicker across his features as he takes another breath of smoke. “Do you want to try it?”

“Mm,” Izaya says, which isn’t quite an answer either way, even if his fingers are still toying with the cigarette caught at Shizuo’s mouth. Shizuo watches his face, tracking the flicker of the other’s thoughts in the angle of his lashes and the pout of his lips before Izaya’s mouth firms on decision and his fingers tighten on certainty. He rocks up, pressing himself up to lean in over Shizuo beneath him; his hand weights against Shizuo’s mouth, his shadow falls across Shizuo’s face. “Breathe in.”

Shizuo does, obedient to this even as his forehead creases on uncertainty, and Izaya tightens his fingers around the base of the cigarette and slides it up and free of Shizuo’s lips. His eyes look very dark as he gazes down at Shizuo. They look at each other for a moment, Shizuo with his mouth full of smoke and Izaya with his eyes blanketed in shadow; and then Izaya’s lashes dip, and his head ducks down, and Shizuo watches the other’s lips part in expectation as Izaya leans in over him. Shizuo’s heart speeds, his skin prickles with a shiver of adrenaline, and when Izaya’s lips skim his own he doesn’t need an order to understand what Izaya wants of him. He parts his lips slowly, careful as he lets the smoke spill up from his mouth to rise into Izaya’s, and Izaya catches a breath as he breathes the silver-stained air from Shizuo’s lungs into his own. Shizuo can feel electricity run down his spine, can feel his whole body tingling with self-consciousness of the intimacy of the action at his lips, and he’s not thinking when he arches up to catch Izaya’s mouth with his, to turn the exchange of air into the friction of a kiss. Izaya tastes familiar, between the bite of Shizuo’s cigarette smoke and the rich heat of his own mouth; and then he pulls away, drawing back by an inch to gasp for some measure of the air blending between them.

“My turn,” he says, and brings Shizuo’s cigarette to his lips for a deliberate inhale; and Shizuo is leaning in as fast as Izaya pulls the cigarette back, laying claim to the other’s mouth without waiting for an invitation. Smoke curls into the air between them, spilling from Izaya’s lips and Shizuo’s alike to wind tendrils into dark hair and bleached-blond together; but Shizuo can’t spare the attention to watch it any more than he can find the distance to draw away from Izaya’s mouth for more than the span of time it takes to pull another inhale into the space between them.

Outside the snow collects, sticking to inches of soft silence on the ground and against the edges of the house; but with Izaya against him smiling smoke and glowing with firelit pleasure, Shizuo barely notices the arrival of winter at all.


End file.
